Read Moon Called for Free Online Page A

free the spear to strike again. That which she attacked was gone, but another leaped upward, scored a burning slash along her arm. She used the knife, felt blood, warm and foul smelling, gush over her hand. Knife—spear—still the attackers came.
    Her arm burned but she had not dropped her weapon. Thora had no time—already another was on her. Still the snarling and hissing assured her that her companions were fighting on.
    Then that hissing arose to an ear-torturing sibilance which made Thora cry out, for the sound seemed to bite into her brain. She staggered, feeling as if the bones of her skull were being forced apart.
    Dazed now, she could only huddle back against the sour earth, clinging still to her weapons, though her body shook to the rise and fall of that sound. There were no more eyes. The squealing grew weaker—or perhaps it was drowned out by Malkin’sthroat wrenching cries.
    Was it quiet at last, or had hearing failed her? Thora was only fully aware of the pain in her head. Then there was a touch on her tooth-lacerated arm. She tried to flinch away. That grip tightened, pulling her on.
    Her boots trod on softness—bodies? She stumbled, was jerked up and ahead. In a daze of pain she followed. For how long she did not know nor care—all she wanted was relief from the agony in her head.
    Cool wind on her face, allaying that agony a little. Then she toppled forward into space, struck against earth, only to slide into complete darkness.
    Thora stood at a clearly marked crossroads where three well-worn paths met. Standing at their centerpoint, stark and grim, was a hewn form so long settled there that its feet had become one with the earth itself. Around it grew a long hedging of tall plant stalks, withered and dead, as if the carven countenance above had blasted them out of life.
    Fungi clung to the statue itself, loathsome yellow-green patches like the markings of a fell plague. The face, with blind blank eyes, bore across it, from forehead to sharp, out-pointing chin, a crack, distorting even more the malice and hatred suggested by that carving.
    This—this was the Dark Side of the Mother—that part of HER which took pleasurein slaying. So was this representation of HER ever set at ill-famed crossroads. There followed a stirring among the dead weeds, as from there emerged grey things with bared fangs. These were not common rats, but rather huge monsters of their species. Dappled they were with scabs and sores, and their eyes were afire with greed and hunger as they pattered towards Thora.
    She strove to lift spear, knife. But her arms were weighted; she could not stir.
    Still within her was life and to her could come death—perhaps not of the body, but of that which was there encased during this lifetime. Thora cried out, a mindless, wordless scream, as the first of the rats sprang.
    Light lanced from the right-hand pathway. Along that beam of light sped things fashioned of pure flame, white as the Mother in the full glory of Her High Nights. These leaped into the air, some hurtling straight towards the statue, others at the foul flood of rats.
    From where they struck came bursts of pure light. That did not sear Thora’s eyes. Rather it was warmth, healing, soft—caressing—
    The rats the lance light touched—were not! Where it fastened on the statue there was born a glow which ate up the patches of foul lichen, producing a silver shining. The eyes in the face were no longer blankly dead—they had become pure and glowing moon gems—larger and more beautiful than any the girlhad ever seen.
    That scar crack drew together, and now lips which were no longer dull stone, curved into a faint smile. The beam of light down which the sparks raced still held. Along it moved another, taller, manlike, wearing a cloak of deep green, which flapped and flared about his body as he moved. Only there was a haze which helmeted his head, hid his features.
    There was no crossroads, no statue. She was staring up at a sky